Friday, 13 February 2009

The First Evening (Arthur Rimbaud)

This is my version of "La Première Soirée" (1870), translated from French. Rimbaud was only 16 years old when he wrote it, and it comes with a juvenile alert...(beep)(beep)(beep), but it's that time of year so I hope you don't mind.

The First Evening

She was practically undressedAnd large trees craftily pressedTheir leaves against her windowsCurious and close, so close.

Sat in my large chair, half-nakedShe clasped her hands upon her lapAnd on the floor, she twitched with pleasureHer little feet, so dainty and fair.

The colour of wax, I watchedAs a flicker of sunlight dancedAcross her smile and to her breastLike a fly upon a rosebud.

I kissed her slender ankles;She made a laugh, gentle and sharp,Little tumbles of brightnessTinkling like a chandelier.

The small feet vanished under her nightie"Will you stop it!" she scolded,The first bold move permittedBy the laugh that merely feigned to scorn.

Sweet 16!! He's trying his luck and she's rather enjoying it, but possibly just playing along.

Well, from being a rather sweet and well-brought up juvenile 15-year old with top marks at school, he tried to run away to Paris, was imprisoned for a week for not having a train ticket, ran away from home to escape his angry mother, became a delinquent 17-year old, drinking and stealing, got to go to Paris because they were so impressed by his poetry, there became a gay bohemian with no morals, then an anarchist, then a soldier, then a deserter, then stopped writing poetry at the age of 21 and went to Africa and lived the high life, probably trading in slaves, and died of cancer at 37...so no poems at 60...sorry, Jach!

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My online pen-name is okei. I'm a lover of mathematics & poetry & philosophy, and a perennial student in the UK with an interest in sport, world music, world film, the wisdom of the mystics, and the essence of beauty, love and knowledge.